Finally he said, “Yeah. That’s him.”
“You’re sure?” I said. “Would you like more time?”
My humor was lost on him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”
“He’s the man who came to see you and asked that you find someone to intimidate Sarah and then me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m not, of course, saying any of this in court. But it’s him.”
He frowned suddenly.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re not wired, are you?”
“Now you ask,” I said. “But no. I’m not.”
“How do I know?”
“Because I just told you,” I said. “And you trust me completely.”
“Well, I . . . oh, fuck,” he said, and took a bite of his cheeseburger.
“Did Mr. Franklin say anything about why he wanted you to intimidate us?”
Karp chewed on his cheeseburger a minute and swallowed, and washed it down with a little coffee.
“Just showed me the cash,” he said.
“What better reason,” I said.
He nodded. His cheeseburger was gone.
“If there’s nothing else,” he said. “I gotta run.”
“There’s nothing else,” I said.
“You got the check this time?” he said.
“This time,” I said.
“Thanks, nice talking to you,” he said.
He finished his coffee in a long swallow and put the cup down. He stood.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said.
I smiled. He headed for the door. I picked up the uneaten half of my tuna sandwich and took a bite. Crime fighting was hungry business.
36
It was raining hard outside. I was sitting against the wall at the far end of my loft, rolling a tennis ball to the other end. When I rolled it, Rosie would race the length of the loft, snatch it, and trot back to me proudly, give me the ball, turn, and wait quivering with intent for me to throw it again. Rosie disliked the rain and refused to walk in it, so I had to improvise. I’d been doing it for twenty minutes when my phone rang. I rolled the ball down the loft again and went and picked it up.
“Miss Randall?”
“Yes.”
“This is George Markham.”
Rosie was back at my feet, dropping the ball and picking it up and dropping it and picking it up. I bent over and got it and tossed it down the loft again.
“How are you, Mr. Markham?”
“I’m terrible, thank you. This stupid investigation has disrupted my home life, badly upset my wife, and estranged me from my daughter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
Rosie brought the ball back and dropped it and picked it up.
“I’m determined to bring it to a conclusion,” George said.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Markham.”
I put the phone down and looked Rosie dead in the eyes and said, “That’s it,” and made a safe sign with my spread hands. Rosie stared at me with her impenetrable black eyes. I held the safe sign and stared back at her. We held our positions for a moment. I could hear Rosie breathing around the ball in her mouth. Then she turned and walked off—haughtily, I thought—and jumped on my bed and began to chew the ball.
“Sorry,” I said into the phone. “What are you planning to do?”
“I’ll have the damned DNA test,” he said. “I find it demeaning and very, very infuriating. But I’m going to do it.”
“That seems sensible,” I said. “Would you like help arranging it?”
“No. I just want you to know I’m going to do it so we can put the damned issue at rest.”
“Will your wife take one, too?”
“She will not. She is far too angry and upset. She would find it humiliating. And she would find it spiritually compromising.”
“Really?” I said. “ ‘Spiritually compromising.’ ”
“My wife is a spiritual person,” he said.
“And God bless her for it,” I said. “For this to have the desired effect, it will need to be a reputable lab, not some DNA-R-Us outfit you found on the Internet.”
“I’ll do it through my local hospital,” Markham said. “It will be legitimate.”
From the bed, Rosie eyed me while she chewed the ball. I felt like Mommie Dearest.
“I applaud your decision, Mr. Markham.”
“Well, I hope once it is done that you will, for God’s sake, leave us alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone when Sarah is confident of her parentage,” I said.
“Bitch,” George Markham said, and hung up the phone. I hung up on my end, and looked at Rosie, glaring at me from the bed.
“Gee,” I said. “He thinks so, too.”
37
At 10:30 in the morning, after Rosie and I had run, and I was having a croissant and coffee at my breakfast table, I called Peter Franklin.
“So,” Peter said, “what happened to you?”
I tried to sound embarrassed.
“I . . . my ex-husband just got remarried,” I said. “And it knocked me for a loop.”
“So you couldn’t spend the night?”
“I . . . no, I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I guess I’m still a little fragile.”
“Sure,” Peter said. “Perfectly understandable. I stand ready to help you with that.”
“How kind.”
“I figured it was my fault,” Peter said. “You know, I wake up and you’re gone. I figured Pete, old buddy, you must be losing the magic.”
“That is the most blatant fishing for a compliment I’ve heard,” I said.
“You think?” Peter said.
“Yes. But I’ll give it to you anyway. You have plenty of magic.”
I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Aw, hell,” he said.
“So,” Peter said. “Why did you call?”
“I wanted to talk with you,” I said.
“Aha,” he said. “The magic lives.”
“Perhaps it is just brought out by the right partner.”
“Talk about fishing for a compliment,” Peter said.
“Okay—you are as magical as anybody I ever slept with,” Peter said.
“How nice of you to say so.”
I broke off a piece of croissant and ate it. I could imagine Peter at the other end of the phone. In his office with his feet up. His coat was probably off. He probably wore suspenders. He was so Princetonian, so good-looking, so nice. His eyes had perfect little crinkles at the corners. His hands were well cared for, and strong-looking. His hair perfectly cut. His cologne charming.
“So,” he said. “That Ike Rosen thing. You ever make any sense of that?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not sure anyone could make sense of Ike Rosen.”
“The bar association never could,” Peter said.
“Do you do entertainment law exclusively?” I said.
“Mostly,” Peter said.
His voice got the serious sound that men get when they talk about their work.
“Is it fun?”
“More fun probably than criminal law.”
Peter’s voice had a smile in it.
“The clientele isn’t necessarily nicer,” he said. “But they’re less dangerous.”
“Have you thought about me meeting Lolly Drake?” I said.
“Mostly I’ve been thinking about why you didn’t spend the night.”
“Do I hear a quid pro quo developing?” I said.
“Practicing law includes the art of negotiation,” Peter said.
“Ever the optimist,” I said. “I know Lolly Drake periodically broadcasts her show from a different city.”
“Sweeps,” Peter said. “It’s a ra
tings stunt.”
“And I know she’s coming to Boston,” I said.
“She is,” Peter said. “Next month.”
“What better time for me to meet her,” I said.
“That might be possible,” he said. “Under the right circumstances.”
We were both smiling and playful, but we both knew a real negotiation was taking place.
“Of course,” I said, “under the right circumstances.”
“When?” Peter said.
His voice was light and friendly.
“COD,” I said.
“After you’ve met Lolly?” he said.
“Yes.”
“That’s cold,” he said.
“Not long after,” I said.
He made a sound that might have been a short laugh.
“You don’t seem like a drooling fan to me,” Peter said. “Why are you so hot to meet her?”
If there was a connection between Lolly Drake and Sarah Markham, it was through Peter, and he would know it. He would also know that my interest was professional. Pretending hero worship was silly. Directness was often thought charming.
“Sarah Markham’s father worked at the same radio station she did,” I said. “In Moline, Illinois, in 1981 or so.”
Peter didn’t find it charming.
“Jesus Christ,” Peter said. “You want me to arrange a meeting so you can ask her about a case you’re working on?”
“Yes.”
“You’re crazy,” he said. “What the hell has one thing got to do with another?”
“That’s what I want to ask her,” I said.
“Listen, Sunny. I like you. We had a good time together one night. But if you think that entitles you to some kind of special discount . . . I can’t arrange any meetings for you with Lolly Drake.”
“The night together was what it was, Peter,” I said. “But you can’t blame a girl for asking.”
For a moment the banter went out of Peter Franklin’s voice.
He said, “You stay away from Lolly Drake, Sunny.”
“Will you be coming up to Boston when she does her show?” I said.
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I could,” he said.
“I’d be happy to see you,” I said.
“I’d like to see you, too,” he said.
We were quiet for a moment. Then Peter spoke again in the cold voice.
“You understand me about Lolly,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “Call me when you get to Boston.”
“And you in New York,” he said.
We hung up. Obviously, I couldn’t bribe him with sex. Maybe I should be offended. On the other hand, sex probably wasn’t that difficult for Peter to come by. And Lolly Drake was.
38
Sarah Markham called and said she wanted to see me. I suggested lunch at Spike’s, and when she showed up there at ten after noon, Rosie and I were already in a booth. Spike was behind the bar. He shot his forefinger at Sarah when she came in, and Sarah smiled slightly at him.
“They let you bring your dog?” she said as she sat down.
Rosie wagged her tail and put her face up so Sarah could kiss her if she wished, which, foolishly, she apparently didn’t.
“I’m friends with the owner.”
“Spike,” Sarah said.
“Un-huh.”
“What about the Board of Health?”
“Shh,” I said. “Rosie will hear you.”
Sarah smiled without much energy. Miranda came by. I was having iced tea. Sarah asked for beer.
“I didn’t really have any real reason,” she said, “to ask you to see me.”
“All reasons are real,” I said.
“I feel so isolated. I mean, I’m, like, investigating my parents. Woody is long gone.”
“The boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend. Ever since those two guys beat him up.”
Her beer came. She drank it from the bottle.
“So, you’re alone and frightened and lonely,” I said.
“Yes.”
“That’s a good reason to come see me,” I said.
“It’s weird,” she said. “The only person I’m okay with is some stranger I hired.”
“We’re not strangers now,” I said. “How is it at home?”
“Awful. My father is, like, hurt, all the time. My mother . . .” She shook her head. “Basically, my mother won’t speak to me.”
“Who have you been closest to, growing up?” I said.
“My father.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Was your mother bitchy?” Sarah said.
“She was, ah, difficult.”
“Did she love you?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. But she was limited. She could only love me if I did things that made her feel good.”
“So it was really about her and not you.”
“Maybe a little more complicated,” I said.
“My mother hates me.”
“Straight-out?” I said.
“Yes. She has always hated me.”
“Uncomplicated, I suppose. Why does she hate you?”
“Maybe because I’m not hers.”
“She says you’re hers.”
“Not to me,” Sarah said.
“I know,” I said. “You mentioned that. Do you have any suspicion, no matter how wild or childish, as to whose kid you might be if you aren’t theirs?”
“No.”
“Your father has agreed to have the DNA testing.”
“I know. He seems to feel very bad about it.”
“You’ll have to supply a sample,” I said.
She nodded.
“Tell me about the trust fund,” I said.
“My mother’s father left me some money in a trust fund. When I was eighteen, it came to me.”
“What was your grandfather’s name?”
“Carter.”
“That your mother’s maiden name?”
“Yes.”
“What was his first name?”
“I don’t know. He died before I was born. He’s always been just Grandpa Carter.”
“Grandmother?”
“No. None of my grandparents are alive.”
“Aunts and uncles?”
She shook her head.
“So, obviously no cousins,” I said.
“No.”
“And no current boyfriends.”
“Even if I did,” Sarah said. “I never went out with anybody worth anything.”
“Well, that is pretty much alone,” I said.
“You live alone,” she said.
“I live with Rosie,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
I nodded.
“Maybe if I were older,” Sarah said. “Like you. Maybe I wouldn’t mind it so much.”
“You might,” I said.
“Do you?”
I thought about how to phrase it.
“I do mind it,” I said. “And I don’t.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sarah said.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
“You just said it, and you don’t know what it means?”
“I want someone in my life,” I said. “But I can’t stand to live with anyone.”
“That’s weird,” Sarah said.
“Almost certainly,” I said.
“You ever live with anyone?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t work out?”
“No.”
“You broke up?”
“We got divorced,” I said.
“You were
married?”
I looked at her and smiled. “Duh?” I said.
She thought about it, then smiled and nodded, and said, “Duh.”
Rosie had given up on the possibility that food would be served and was sprawled on her side next to me, snoring quietly, with my hand resting on her rib cage.
“Was that why you got divorced?” Sarah asked.
“At the time, I thought it was Richie,” I said, “that he pressed me too hard.”
“For what?” Sarah said.
“For intimacy, for children, for . . . I don’t know. He wanted too much of me.”
“I wish somebody wanted too much of me,” Sarah said.
“I know,” I said. “When you’re alone, you think there couldn’t be too much affection. When you get too much, and you don’t like it, you think, What’s wrong with me?”
“Did you think you loved him?” Sarah said.
“I know I did.”
“Do you now?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think you might get back together?”
I shook my head. “He’s remarried,” I said.
“People don’t always stay married,” Sarah said.
I smiled. “I don’t think it’s in my best interest,” I said, “to hang around hoping his marriage will fail.”
“This is pretty amazing,” Sarah said.
“That I’m divorced?”
“That you got problems. You’re, like, this really together babe.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You even got a cool dog.”
“I do have a cool dog,” I said.
“You’re, like, not scared of things. Like everything’s under control. Like you know what to do and you know you’ll be able to do it.”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“But not always?”
“I doubt that there is anything that’s always.”
“But you’re always good at being a detective,” Sarah said.
I saw where this was going. If she couldn’t trust me, she had no one at all. And she was right.
“I am excellent at being a detective,” I said.
Miranda came over and put a large platter of nachos on the table between us. Rosie sat up alertly.
“Amuse-bouche,” Miranda said. “From Spike.”
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